


Uncaged

by SuddenlySullen



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bathing/Washing, Drug Use, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Morning Wood, Sharing a Bed, Soft Date Rape, Somnophilia, Underage Drug Use, fellas is it gay if you jerk your buddy off when he cant do it himself?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 01:11:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21218084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuddenlySullen/pseuds/SuddenlySullen
Summary: "Hey, Bluebird," Slade calls across the warehouse. "What's rattled your cage?"Dick's chest heaves at the sight of Deathstroke. He wants to tell him to fuck off. He considers it, eyeing the man up and down."You come to try and kill me?"





	1. Chapter 1

Batman seems to be on hiatus. No one can find him, Dick included. Lights in the sky go unanswered and even the papers have started to speculate that he's left for good. Dick has even resorted to showing up at the manor unannounced, but either he isn't there or he's hiding exceptionally well. So, Nightwing has been answering the call when the signal goes up. It's been nearly a month and Dick is beyond tired. Every night when he goes out, he wonders if it will be the night that his exhaustion will make him slip. 

Tonight, the answer is yes. The bullet grazes his forearm, barely even a scratch, but at the same time so much more. The pain sears. It's been a while since someone managed to hit him and he'd forgotten the unique pain of gunshot wounds. He knows he's only alive because stupid kids who get their hands on guns don't actually know how to shoot them and he knows it's more luck than anything else. He drops the dumbass kid in front of the police station, maybe a little rougher than is absolutely necessary, and takes off before anyone has a chance to see him.

Dick glides through a broken window, glass and litter crunching under his feet as he lands inside an abandoned warehouse. He's angry and for the first time, he has no one to tell him what to do with that anger. He doesn't know what to do. He reaches for something, anything, and grabs the first object his hands land on - an old wooden pallet. Using all of his strength, he hurls it across the warehouse, savoring the dull splintering of wood against the concrete walls. A pleasant shudder rolls down his spine when the shattering cuts through the silence. 

Slade ducks through a different window and watches from above. He lets one leg dangle off of the catwalk, cigarette dangling from his mouth. There's something intoxicatingly beautiful about watching one of the "good guys" unleash so much destruction. 

Dick finds a steel drum and yanks his gloves off before punching and kicking it across the warehouse. It splits his knuckles open and the burn only fuels his rage. One especially hard kick sends the drum clamoring upward to shatter what must have been one of very few remaining light bulbs. The glass shards spray across Slade's perch. He drops to the floor behind Dick.

"Hey, Bluebird," Slade calls across the warehouse. "What's rattled your cage?" 

Dick's chest heaves at the sight of Deathstroke. He wants to tell him to fuck off. He considers it, eyeing the man up and down. 

"You come to try and kill me?" Dick asks. 

Slade lets out half a laugh. It's almost cute, he thinks, the way that Nightwing puffs his little chest out at him. "C'mon, Bluebird. You're worth too much. You think any more about working with me? I want to keep you."

This might be the first time someone has told Dick directly that they think he's worth something and it falls so easily out of Slade's mouth. It breaks something in him. Dick moves forward and Slade braces for the full-body tackle that he expects is coming. Instead, Dick melts into him. It isn't exactly a hug, since Dick's arms hang limp at his sides, but his forehead is pressed into Slade's chest and he seems to be doing his best to lean all of his weight into him. At least, it isn't a hug until Slade pulls an arm around Dick's shoulders. 

"Should clean up before you get tetanus," Slade tells him. 

Dick is listening, but he isn't hearing. His brain stopped processing conscious thought the exact second that Slade had turned whatever they were doing into an honest-to-god hug. 

"Kids these days," Slade growls, shaking his head. "Gotta do everything for 'em."

Slade considers his options before he scoops Dick up into his arms. Dick can't even bring himself to protest. His arm throbs and he vaguely remembers that he probably needs stitches. But his weight is off his feet and he can't keep up the carefully-maintained tension that lets him get through every day. Slade. Slade, of all people, is carrying him, setting him down on the passenger seat of a car, and buckling his seatbelt. He feels safe, he thinks, from what he can remember about what 'safe' is meant to feel like. It sits heavy and unfamiliar in his gut, weighing his eyelids down from within.

Slade steals sideways glances at Dick the whole drive to his temporary housing. With each wince in his sleep or soft whimper, Slade can feel the anger at the bat bubbling up in his chest. Next time he sees the man, he promises himself that he'll shoot to kill. 

Dick blinks and they are stopping outside of an older apartment building. Slade is reaching over him to unbuckle his seatbelt and lift him easily into his arms. Dick's not sure if Slade even knows he's almost awake, drifting somewhere in the grey of half-awareness. 

"Takes a special kind of coward to teach a bunch of kids to fight your battles and then pick up and leave them when shit hits the fan," Slade mutters under his breath, more to the empty stairwell than to Dick. 

Slade opens the door to an apartment, balancing Dick in his arms long enough to turn the door handle. He kicks it shut behind them with a loud clang. Dick startles, curling his body in closer to Slade without thinking. Slade almost feels guilty for scaring him. 

"Easy, Bluebird. I gotcha." Slade's voice is quieter now, but just as firm as ever. 

He carries Dick into a bathroom and sets him down on the toilet seat before flicking the lights on. He pulls the mask off with one finger, dropping it onto the bathroom counter. Dick's eyes are rimmed with circles so dark that Slade almost mistakes them for black eyes.

"Does this onesie come off in pieces?" Slade cocks an eyebrow at Dick. 

Dick shakes his head. 

"Off with it, then," Slade motions for Dick to lean forward. "Can't fix you up if I can't see what I'm working with."

With a sigh, Dick leans in. His forehead presses against Slade's stomach while large hands pat down his back until they find the zipper of his suit. Slade is softer than Dick expects. He knows exactly what kind of strength Slade has. Somehow, Dick didn't expect the slight give of his stomach. It's comfortable, in a way, and Dick tries not to think about that too much. The suit is peeled down off his chest and arms for him. He unzips the sides of his boots and pulls the suit the rest of the way off himself. He shivers in only his briefs. Before he can curl in on himself to hide his body, Slade is picking up his injured arm. 

Dick watches as Slade runs a wet paper towel down his arm, wiping away most of the dried blood. Slade's eye is intensely focused on the wound. He bites the plastic cap off of a syringe full of clear liquid. Dick tenses, prepared for whatever pain is about to come. Slade takes a long breath through his nose, swallowing his frustration.

"Relax," Slade says as he spits the cap out. "It's just saline." 

He turns Dick's arm in his hand and squirts the saline into his wound, rinsing the grime of the city from it. It brings a dull ache, but none of the searing burn that Dick expected. He lets himself relax into Slade's hands once more. 

"Attaboy," Slade murmurs, ruffling Dick's hair once he's tossed the syringe into a trash bin. He doesn't miss the way that Dick leans into the touch. He wonders how starved for affection the kid is if that's all it takes. 

Slade repeats the process with a few more syringes. Dick watches his face while he works. For the first time, he notices the slight wrinkles at the edges of Slade's eyes. They make him seem so much more human. Slade reaches behind him to a medicine cabinet and pulls a box from it. 

"Steri strips," he answers the question that Dick wasn't going to ask. "Better than stitches. Duct tape will work in a pinch, but it's a cunt to get off." 

Slade doesn't look up at all while he works. He holds Dick's wrist between his thighs, steadying his arm. Dick tries not to think about how much harder Slade's thighs are than his stomach. Slade pinches the skin together where the bullet grazed him with one hand and applies the tape strips with the other. He moves with more ease than any doctor Dick has ever seen. 

"You do this a lot?" Dick asks.

Slade finally looks up from Dick's arm as the last strip is pressed down. "Not for other people," he answers plainly. "Take these," he presses two small white pills into Dick's hand. "For the pain." 

Dick yawns, but nods. If Slade wanted him dead he'd be dead already, he reasons, so he might as well take the help he's being given.

Slade releases Dick's arm from between his legs and watches as he swallows both pills dry, then motions with his head for Dick to follow him out. "Come on. Place ain't much, but it's got a bed." 

Dick is aware enough to know that he should say no. He should leave and pretend none of this ever happened. In the moment, though, he realizes that he's spent his whole life doing what everyone else told him he should do and none of it ever felt like this. This feels safe. It feels like maybe there's someone he can trust to watch his back long enough to get a few hours of sleep with both eyes shut. Following Slade through this apartment, Dick feels like his hands are finally off the wheel. Someone else is calling the shots. And it's intoxicating. When Slade leads him to a bed, complete with sheets and blankets, Dick crawls onto it and drops his head onto the pillow before even being told to. The sheets smell cleaner than his own have in months.

He's not surprised when Slade follows, fully clothed with the exception of his boots, which are tucked carefully under the edge of the bed, and his weapons, which are set down on the nightstand. He is surprised when Slade's arm drapes over his chest, pulling him back against the warm body beside him. He can feel the effects of the pills, though, and finds himself with even less willpower to protest. He's warm and safe and nothing hurts and he can't remember the last time he felt any of those things. He wonders, briefly, as he's slipping into a hazy sleep, if this is what being sixteen is supposed to be. 


	2. Chapter 2

What Dick thought was some kids messing around seems to be much more when he interrupts whatever they're doing at the police station. A thrown knife barely misses him and, outnumbered, he's forced to run. One of the would-be burglars follows him, easily jumping across fire escapes. They're gaining on him and, in his panic, Dick gets sloppy. He knows midair that his leap is off. Still, he reaches for the edge of the building to try and catch himself. The pain in his shoulder is blinding. If he didn't know better, he might think that it had been torn clean off. He falls several stories and lands on his back on the fire escape. With the wind knocked out of him and his arm unable to move, he's paralyzed as the masked burglar drops down at his feet. He sees the knife in their hand as he's trying to scramble backwards away from them. 

A single gunshot echoes through the alleyway. The burglar drops in front of Dick, blood dripping out of their chest and through the metal grates of the fire escape. He looks around frantically for the shooter, expecting a second shot to pierce through him at any second. 

"Calm down, Bluebird," Slade calls up from the ground as he pulls himself up the fire escape. 

Dick lets out a sigh of relief. Slade, at least, is familiar. When he makes it to Dick, he gives the burglar's body a firm kick, sending it tumbling down to the pavement with a nauseatingly wet crunch. When Slade finally gets a good look at Dick, he can see that he's managed to dislocate his shoulder. 

"I gotta fix you up again?" Slade shakes his head. 

"Nobody's making you," Dick says and squeezes his eyes shut against the pain. 

Slade gets on one knee between Dick's legs and grabs the wrist of his injured arm. "This is gonna hurt."

Dick tries to bite back his scream when Slade slowly pulls his arm forward. He feels a slide and pop that makes his stomach churn. Slade takes his other hand and guides it to his elbow, having him brace his arm in a makeshift sling. 

"I got stuff for that at the house. Come on, we'll get you fixed up," Slade says as he's helping Dick up with a strong hand wrapped around the bicep of his good arm. 

There's no real point arguing and Dick's too tired and in too much pain to put in the effort to argue for show, so he follows Slade down the fire escape without complaint. Slade thinks he almost prefers the quiet compliance, if only he could get it without the kid being in too much pain to be useful. Slade jumps to the ground first, then turns and guides Dick down gently with two hands on his hips. Dick tries not to blush thinking about when the last time anyone had touched him there was. 

Slade takes him to the same apartment as the first time he'd stitched him up. It seems brighter than the last time Dick had seen it, like maybe someone had actually been living there. As soon as the door shuts behind them, Slade is pulling his mask off. He plucks Dick's off his face right after, tossing them both onto the small dining table. 

"There you are." Slade smiles. "I got some cloth I use for slings in the bathroom." 

Dick nods and heads through the door that he knows leads there, sitting down on the lid of the toilet. Slade tugs the zipper of his suit down and helps him work his way out of the top half. He watches as Slade pulls a large cloth out of the cabinet and ties it into a sling for his arm. Afterwards, three pills are pressed into his good hand. 

"Same as last time. For the pain," Slade tells him. 

There's no hesitation when Dick pops them into his mouth and swallows them down. His shoulder feels like it's been sent through a garbage disposal and then glued back together. 

"Thanks for saving my ass. Again," Dick says once the pills work their way down his dry throat. 

"Don't mention it," Slade's voice is rough. "Seriously." 

Dick unzips his boots and kicks them off, but struggles with getting his suit the rest of the way down one-handed. Slade takes pity on him, pulling the suit off his ankles easily. He jerks his head backwards towards the bedroom and Dick goes without another word. He can hear Slade moving around the room, but his head is spinning from the pills and he's forced to keep his eyes closed. Slade slips into the bed behind Dick, pressing his bare chest to his back. Dick's skin is soft and Slade isn't sure what his endgame is here, but he doesn't stop. He drapes his arm low across Dick's hips, carefully avoiding his injured arm. Dick feels that his face is flushed. He's not sure if it's a side effect of the pills or his own reaction to being in his underwear with Slade's nearly naked body pressed against him. He's not sure he minds either way. He's safe here. He knows that Slade isn't going to let anything happen to him and right now he doesn't care at all about what the implications of that might be. He feels warm and loose and happy. He falls asleep to the steady sound of Slade's breathing and the gentle drag of calloused fingers moving across his stomach. 

Slade sighs when he hears Dick's breathing turn slow and even. He lets himself curl just a little closer. Just enough to bury his nose in Dick's hair. He smells like sweat and unwashed boy. Slade rolls his eye. It reminds him of his time in boot camp. Some things never change, he supposes. 

When he wakes, Slade is vaguely aware of Dick still sleeping next to him. They haven't moved in the night, except maybe for Dick to press his hips back into Slade's. Slade can feel the fabric of Dick's briefs on his wrist where his morning wood is straining against the fabric. Some things really never change. 

Dick wakes up blushing deep pink all the way down his chest. His mind is still fuzzy from the painkillers, but he knows he's embarrassingly hard. He tries to will his erection away, knowing that the effort is useless. When Slade shifts behind him, his arm brushes the front of Dick's briefs and Dick has to bite back a soft moan. 

"Want some help with that, Bluebird?" Slade doesn't move away. He presses his face into Dick's hair and talks soft in his ear. 

"What?" Dick is frozen. He's almost convinced that this is some pill-induced dream. 

Slade's palm opens and presses on the flat plane of muscle between his hips. "I joined the army when I was your age. One thing you learn in the army is that sometimes when your buddy wakes up with a hard-on that just won't quit, you do what you gotta do and trust that next time he'll do it for you. So - you want some help with that?" 

Dick swallows thickly, then nods. He knows he can't do anything about it for himself with his arm burning in a sling and Slade is here. Slade has been taking care of him when he gets hurt. He’s done a better job looking out for Dick than anyone else has. His hand is pushing Dick’s briefs down, still hidden under the warmth of the blanket. Dick closes his eyes and tries to relax into the pillow. Slade savors the first drags of his fingers over Dick’s cock. Dick whines, hips rocking up to look for more. Slade smiles against his neck and obliges him, wrapping his large hand around it. He waits a few long moments before Dick starts rolling his hips, fucking into Slade’s fist. Slade sits up onto his elbow so that he can watch Dick’s face twist and flush.

Whatever Slade might have expected Dick to be like, he is exactly the opposite. There is nothing quiet and controlled about him. His mouth drops open to let loose a stream of high pitched whining noises. It reminds Slade of a wounded animal which, if he’s being honest, really does it for him. He moves his hand in rough strokes over Dick’s cock, wringing the orgasm out of him without fanfare. After his cum has painted the underside of the blankets, Slade tucks him back into his briefs and lets out a sigh.

“Maybe next time you can just call instead of hurting yourself,” Slade says as he sits up on the edge of the bed before walking off and getting dressed. 

Dick takes several moments to realize that Slade didn't even ask for anything in return. He wonders if he should offer, but decides that the moment has passed and that offering now would be weird. He wonders, very briefly, how many "buddies" Slade had helped during his time in the army - and how many had returned the favor. 


	3. Chapter 3

The pain in his arm only gets worse with every passing hour. It's been two days since he hurt it and Dick is leaning against the wall out back of the bar, drenched in sweat. If it felt like it had gone through the garbage disposal when it first happened, now it felt like it had been run over with a car a few times for good measure. Every movement, including breathing, made his shoulder light up with pain. He considers calling Slade to ask for help, but remembers that he doesn't have a phone number for him. He isn't even sure Slade knows how to use a cell phone. He does know where Slade lives, though, and blinding pain can be used to justify many things. Things like calling an Uber and having it drop him off around the corner from Slade's apartment. 

Dick isn't sure what he's going to do if Slade doesn't answer the door when he knocks. He briefly considers sitting on the floor in the hallway until whenever Slade comes back. Then the door is opening and he's met with the business end of one of Slade's guns. 

"Fuck, Bluebird." Slade sets the gun down on a nearby table so fast he almost drops it. 

Dick looks like hell. Slade guides him to the bathroom with a hand on his good shoulder and motions for him to sit down on the lid of the toilet. He shoves four pills into Dick's hand and Dick takes them without even half of the usual moment of hesitation. 

"When was the last time you showered?" Slade asks, staring down at Dick. 

"I don't know," Dick shakes his head. "At least four days?" 

"Get in," Slade jerks his head to the shower. 

He doesn't wait for a response before he's taking off the drug store sling that Dick replaced his makeshift one with. Dick winces with every slight movement, even though Slade is trying to jostle him as little as possible. 

"How much do you like this shirt?" Slade looks down at the plain black tee that Dick is wearing. 

Dick looks up, confused. He feels like he's falling and has to close his eyes. His stomach is doing flips. He shakes his head again, too scared of throwing up to open his mouth.

Using medical scissors from his bathroom cabinet, Slade cuts the sweat-soaked shirt off of Dick. Part of him is impressed that Dick had managed to get it on at all. He tugs Dick's sneakers off and unbuckles his belt before helping him stand up. 

The room swirls every time Dick opens his eyes and eventually he gives up. Slade's hand is firm under his good arm and it's the only thing keeping him grounded. Every few seconds, his head snaps upward as he fights falling asleep on his feet. Everything is warm. His pants and briefs are pushed down with Slade's free hand. He might have been embarrassed if he could focus on anything other than staying awake.

Slade maneuvers Dick into the bathtub, keeping one hand on his back so that he stays upright. The sound of Dick making a distressed whimpering noise makes him pause before turning on the water. When he looks back at Dick, there is a steady stream of piss leaking between his legs. The smell is sour and fills the air. Slade sighs. He should be disgusted, but Dick looks so small and distressed that he can't think of anything other than helping him. 

The insides of Dick's thighs burn when his head snaps up. Something smells awful and he nearly gags. He realizes, as he's slipping into an upright sleep again, that he's peeing all over himself. When he tries to speak, all that comes out is a garbled whine before he's pulled back into that place between consciousness. 

Once the shower turns on, the smell and sight are gone as quickly as they came. Slade scrubs through Dick's hair with one hand, being as careful as he can to not get soap in his eyes. Dick can feel the fingers on his scalp. He thinks he's leaning into the touch, but it might just be his head spinning. He tries to thank Slade for taking care of him. What comes out is nothing more than another strained whimper. 

Slade starts humming while he's rinsing the suds out of Dick's hair. It's a song he's heard on the radio that reminds him of Dick. He doesn't stop himself when he realizes he's started singing the chorus. Dick is too far gone to notice one way or the other.

" _ And if the house just keeps on winning/ _

_ I got a wildcard up my sleeve/ _

_ And if love keeps giving me lemons/ _

_ I'll just mix 'em in my drink/ _

_ And if the whole wide world stops singing/ _

_ And all the stars go dark/ _

_ I'll keep a light on in my soul/ _

_ Keep a bluebird in my heart." _

Through his haze, Dick can hear the sound of Slade's voice. He thinks he must be dreaming. It almost sounds like Slade is singing. It's nicer than he would have imagined Slade's singing voice to be, not that he ever would have considered Slade to be the singing type. Dick smiles, accepting the dream for what it is, and tries to settle himself back into sleep so that he can enjoy it for as long as it will last. 

Once the soap is out of Dick's hair, Slade lets him lay back in the bottom of the tub. He moves the injured arm so that Dick's forearm rests across his chest and doesn't pull anything more. He uses a washcloth to scrub down the rest of Dick's body. Some small part of him is surprised that there isn't a visible layer of dirt swirling down the drain. Dick's legs fall open easily when Slade starts washing whatever might be left of his accident from the inside of his thighs. When he manages to wash and rinse Dick's cock without it getting hard, Slade has to double check to make sure that he's still breathing. He is and Slade assumes the painkillers must be doing a good job if he's that far gone. 

For good measure, Slade rubs his thumb over the head of Dick's soft cock. When there is no response, he pinches and tugs on the lip of Dick's foreskin. Dick's face stays blank and relaxed. Slade knows, then, that there isn't much he could do that would wake him up. He moves his hand lower, dragging the pad of his middle finger over Dick's ass. Dick's body is completely lax. With the slightest pressure, Slade is sliding a finger inside. He feels against Dick's walls until he thinks he's found his prostate. Using one finger, he rubs over the spot again and again. Dick's cock stays soft between his thighs, but the beads of fluid leaking out of him are unmistakable in the seconds before the shower washes them away. 

Dick dreams that he's flying. There's no images in his dream, but he knows that he's flying. He can feel it low in his gut where the adrenaline pools. He can feel it in the way his chest feels so full he thinks he might burst. Somewhere far away, he can still hear Slade's voice and he knows that he's safe. 

The only warning that Slade gets before Dick's still-limp cock is dribbling globs of come is a 

muffled sound that almost makes him think that Dick has woken up. When Dick doesn't move and his body doesn't respond any further, Slade keeps rubbing his finger over his prostate, pulling more out of him. The shower washes it all away and Slade halfway regrets doing this in the shower where he doesn't get a chance to appreciate his work. He only stops his movements when the water starts to run cold. 

With the shower off, Slade dries Dick off as much as he can in the bathtub before lifting him and carrying him to the bed where he can finish the job. He's as gentle as possible when he sets Dick down. He pulls the blankets up around Dick's waist before tugging off his own wet clothing. When Slade crawls into the bed behind Dick, he lets his bare hips press against the curve of his ass. 


	4. Chapter 4

Dick’s arm has healed, leaving only a dull ache to remind him that he had been hurt. He paces the sidewalk outside of Slade’s apartment. With a last look back the way he came, he pulls open the door and walks up. He knocks softly, then takes a step back and puts his hand up, expecting to be greeted with the business end of a gun again.

“Get the hell in here,” Slade says when he pulls the door open. He shuts it behind Dick, then eyes him up and down. “You hurt?”

“No,” Dick shakes his head. “You said to call next time instead of hurting myself, but I don’t think you even have a phone.”

Slade pauses, then picks up a black business card off a counter and slips it into Dick’s hand.

“Oh,” Dick looks down at the red stamped numbers, the only thing printed on the card. “Thanks.”

“How’s the arm,” Slade asks. He can tell that Dick is still babying it.

“Hurts,” Dick laughs. “It’s alright though. I’m okay.”

“Of course you are. You want something for it?”

“Ye-” Dicks starts answering before even thinking about the question. “No, I’ll be alright.”

“That’s not what I asked you, Bluebird. C’mon.” Slade jerks his head to the bathroom. “If you let it hurt and don’t use it, it gets weaker.”

Dick follows and takes the pill that’s dropped in his palm without arguing. He hurts less and feels himself getting sleepy almost immediately, even though he knows there’s no way that the pill worked that fast. Before it has time to really take effect, Dick steps into Slade’s personal space and presses an open-mouthed kiss to his lips. His chest tightens when Slade doesn’t immediately respond. He thinks he might be about to be thrown out of a window. 

Slade is stunned when Dick kisses him. He freezes for half a breath before dropping his hands to Dick’s hips and pulling him in closer so that he can lick all the way into his mouth. Dick kisses like he fights. He’s brave, never backs down from a challenge, but also sloppy. What he lacks in finesse, he more than makes up for with enthusiasm. Dick feels like the tension has melted from his body when Slade’s hands move lower and cup his ass. He barely starts to lift before Dick’s legs are wound tight around his waist. 

When Slade picks him up, Dick feels the whole room spinning. He holds onto Slade’s shoulders and squeezes his eyes shut. He’s surprised when his back is dropped onto the bed. His arms fall away from Slade and bounce off the mattress. The room still spins while Slade’s hands are moving under his tee shirt. Slade is slow and calculated. He presses his hands down in just the right places, rubbing his thumbs over Dick’s ribs. Dick tries to squirm, but is held in place. With his eyes closed, all of his limbs feel like they're very far away. 

Slade drops his mouth to the side of Dick's neck, mouthing and biting just hard enough to hurt, but just shy of leaving too many marks. Dick’s skin is soft and tastes like the faintest hints of sweat. Slade tugs the tee shirt over his head, trying to avoid pulling too hard on the injured arm. He mouths down Dick's chest, letting his teeth sink in hard on the fleshy side of his ribs. Dick mewls in that hurt animal way he did when Slade jerked him off. He tugs off Dick's boots and lets them drop to the floor at the foot of the bed. Dick's hands fumble with his own zipper while Slade pulls his own shirt over his head. 

Dick struggles to focus his eyes so that he can take in the sight of Slade's bare chest. His mouth falls open when Slade stands up to pull his own pants and boxers off before yanking Dick's down and tossing them aside. Slade grins when he sees the way that Dick's cock twitches at the sight of him. He pulls a bottle of lube from the nightstand, giving himself a few lazy strokes. Dick's hand falls to his own cock, rubbing it with an open palm. Slade lays down on his back next to dick. He snakes an arm under Dick's waist so that he can pull the smaller boy on top of him. Dick whines and rolls his hips, grinding their cocks together. 

With one hand, Slade guides the head of his cock to Dick's ass. The other pushes Dick upright so that Slade can watch as he sinks down on his cock. Dick's eyelids are half closed. His muscles are loose and relaxed, even as he starts to take Slade's cock. He's tight. Slade bites the inside of his cheek to try and swallow a moan, but ends up growling anyway. Dick whines when Slade's cock is fully inside him. He's rocking his hips, one hand on his cock. Whenever Dick finds the right angle to hit his prostate, he lets out a long, whiny moan. Slade's fingers press into Dick's thighs hard enough that he's going to bruise. He groans when Dick starts to speed up and can't help but jerk his hips upward, drawing a tight moan from Dick's mouth. Slade can feel that he's getting closer. His hands move to cup Dick's ass so that he can pump into him faster. Dick strokes himself faster, trying to keep up with Slade's brutal pace. He comes with a wail, painting Slade's chest with thick ropes of cum. His jaw goes slack and he's panting with exhaustion. Slade doesn't pause, still chasing his own release. A sob tears through Dick's chest from the overstimulation. When Slade sees the tears start dripping out of Dick's eyes, he finally grinds his cock deep into Dick's ass and comes. 

Slade reaches for a cloth from the nightstand and carefully wipes the cum from his stomach as Dick is rolling off of him to curl up at his side. Dick whimpers when Slade moves the cloth between his legs to wipe off what he can. When they're both clean enough, Slade wraps an arm around Dick's shoulders, pulling him in close. Dick rests his head on Slade's chest and slips into sleep almost immediately. Slade stays awake longer, listening to the soft sound of Dick breathing and enjoying having Dick pressed so close. 

It's still dark when the sound of a phone wakes them both. Slade picks it up from the nightstand with a low growl.

"Deathstroke," Slade says into the receiver. His voice is hard and he sounds annoyed. "Yep. Got it. It'll get done." Slade closes the flip phone and drops it on the floor with an irritated sigh. 

"Work?" Dick asks.

"Yeah," Slade says. 

"Where's the job," Dick yawns and rubs his eyes.

"Fucking Iowa. You know what's in Iowa?" Slade looks down his chest at Dick, who shakes his head. "Corn. It's all fucking corn. Sometimes when you get real lucky, there's about 50 miles of soybeans. And then? More fucking corn. Ain't shit in Iowa." 

"Can I come?" The words are out before Dick even has time to think about what he's saying. 

Slade pauses for a long moment, looking down at Dick's head resting on his chest. He's not quite sure if this means that Dick is actually considering working with him, but he's willing to chance it even if Dick's just looking to get fucked again. 

"Alright," Slade brings a hand up to ruffle Dick's hair. "Gonna be a long drive and you aren't the worst company. Get your clothes on, kid." 

Less than half an hour later, the song that reminds him of Dick comes on the radio and Slade is nudging up the volume. Dick pretends he doesn't hear it when Slade starts to hum along. Dick turns to look out the window and sees that the Bat Signal is lighting up the sky. Turning back to Slade, he nudges the radio up just a little higher and starts singing along to the chorus. He's not sure quite where he's heard it before, but as soon as he opens his mouth, the words come easily. 


End file.
